Isabel waited by Field’s side while the detectives watched the video. She was feeling queasy; her arm burned, and all she wanted was a hot shower to wash away the blood. She wanted to burn the clothes she was wearing, too. She’d keep her jacket, though, because her mother had given it to her, but she planned to wash it at least a dozen times. One quick look down at her T-shirt was cringe-worthy. Blood everywhere. His blood. Then she noticed the tear in the left sleeve of her jacket near her shoulder. Had the man she was trying to help done that? He was clawing at her jacket, she remembered. Or did it tear when the bullet whizzed by her? The fabric was nylon and the jacket didn’t cost much at all, but she treasured it and vowed to find a way to patch it and make it almost perfect again.
Field was getting nervous. His grip on her elbow tightened, and he watched the crowd with a worried look on his face. The detectives seemed mesmerized by the video. No, she thought. Samuel was mesmerized, but Rayborne was expressionless, giving no hint of a reaction to what he was seeing.
The crowd was edging closer.
Field turned his back to them and spoke to Samuel. “I think you should get her out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, all right,” Samuel agreed without looking up from the video, which he was now watching for the second or third time.
“I’ll be happy to take her in,” Field offered.
“What’s the hurry?” Rayborne asked.
“I don’t think you understand what’s going on here.” Field nodded his head in the direction of the crowd. “These people have become her protectors.” He couldn’t explain how it had happened.
Maybe it was because of her act of heroism or the fact that she looked so vulnerable now.
Samuel handed the phone back to the policeman. He didn’t have to look at the people to read their mood. He put his hands up and said, “Everyone step back. Give us some room.”
No one moved.
“Hey, Detective Samuel,” a policeman called out. He lifted the large cloth that had been placed over the dead man. “Right between the eyes. Perfect shot.”
Isabel didn’t need to hear that. She bowed her head and tried not to gag. If she had any food in her stomach, she would have lost it by now. Thank God she hadn’t eaten all day.
“Let’s go,” Field said. When he took hold of her arm, she cried out in pain. He quickly let go.
A man in the growing crowd shouted, “You leave her alone.” Several others chorused their agreement.
“We aren’t going to let you hurt her.” A woman shouted that promise.
“I’m going to go ahead and take her in,” Field said. He didn’t suggest or ask this time.
A couple of minutes later Isabel was in the backseat of Field’s vehicle and on her way to the station. The air inside the car smelled of kielbasa, sauerkraut, and Old Spice aftershave. Another wave of nausea engulfed her. To calm her nerves, she stared out the window and concentrated on the
passing landscape. They turned a corner and drove by a park that had also been renovated. There was a brand-new playground with swings and slides and a huge jungle gym. The thick grass had been freshly cut, and there were a few tall trees providing shade to benches on the edge of the property.
Any other time she would have stopped to watch the children laughing and playing, but not today.
Today she was sitting in a police car on her way to being interrogated about a shooting. The whole scene was almost too absurd to believe.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a long drive. But by the time she was helped out of the car and walked into the station with Field at her side, she felt like a criminal again. She kept her head down until she heard a deep voice calling her name. She looked up and inwardly groaned. Standing just a few feet away from her was Michael Buchanan.
FOUR
MICHAEL WASN’T PREPARED FOR THE SIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. ISABEL WAS COVERED IN BLOOD
and was so pale she looked as though she was about to pass out.
The policeman with her stepped forward to introduce himself. “I’m Officer Patrick Field,” he said. “And who are you?”
“Michael Buchanan,” he answered, but his attention remained on Isabel.
“And you’re here for Miss MacKenna?”
“Yes.” His answer was curt.
Field was pretty sure he knew what Michael was thinking, and so, for at least the fifth time, he wearily said, “It’s not her blood.”
Relieved, Michael said, “Good. That’s good.”
“She wasn’t injured,” Field insisted.